


Conjuring

by JacobFlood



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, flirting so heavy it's industrial-grade, shakespearean dialogue unchanged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:57:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobFlood/pseuds/JacobFlood
Summary: A staging, in prose, with makeouts, of R&J II.i. Since nobody will let me direct this/play Benvolio, this is what you get instead.





	Conjuring

Mercutio and I hurtled down the lane. Cobblestones gave way to dirt under our feet. A wooden fence bordered one side of the lane, a stone wall the other. It was over this that I had just seen Romeo vanish, talking quietly to himself as he did. Over he’d gone, and dropped into the Capulet’s orchard.  
  
We’d only just escaped the party without causing violence, and now Romeo wanted to return? I couldn’t understand him. Rosaline had been at the party, but he hadn’t shown any interest in her. What was he doing now? She was most likely long gone, and would rebuff his attentions anyway.  
  
I’d left my mask somewhere in the street, but Mercutio still wore his. He smirked at me from under it as I called out.  
  
“Romeo! My cousin Romeo!”  
  
There was no response. I trod further, to where I was sure I had seen him jump over.  
  
“He is wise,” said Mercutio, “and, on my lie, hath stol’n him home to bed.” He gave a huge yawn, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back. Briefly the complete shape of him was outlined clear in the moonlight and I felt my ears go red. Too dark for him to tell, hopefully.  
  
“He ran this way,” I said, trying to remember what I was doing, “and leap’d this orchard wall.” With my gaze fixed steadily on the top of the wall, I added, “Call, good Mercutio.”  
  
“Nay, I’ll conjure too,” said Mercutio. His puffed his chest out and planted his feet well apart. I rolled my eyes and tried not to grin. “Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied.”  
  
I pretended to wince at his volume and took a step away. I found my back colliding with the stone wall. Mercutio continued, gesturing expansively.  
  
“Cry but ‘Ay me!’, pronounce but ‘love’ and ‘dove’,” he said, “speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, one nick-name for her purblind son and heir.”  
  
He took a step closer to me, his gaze tracking down from some airy midpoint over to wall, to rest evenly on my own eyes. I felt the blush spread to my cheeks and turned away, lifting my torso up to see over the wall, hoping for some sight of Romeo in the orchard—but also that the breeze would cool me down. I couldn’t hold the position for long and so dropped, both my motives denied. Mercutio, as he always did, kept talking. He’d flipped his mask up onto the top of his head while I wasn’t looking.  
  
“Young Adam Cupid, he that”—he looked me up and down—“shot so trim, when King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!”  
  
He was fond of that old fable. The king who had gone his life without knowing love until he saw the beggar girl, Penelophon, and made her his queen. Mercutio took another step closer to me, giving a cursory glance in the direction Romeo had vanished, then spoke again, much quieter.  
  
“He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.”  
  
He took yet another step, bringing us only a finger’s width apart.  
  
“I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes.”  
  
He brushed a lock of hair back from my forehead and traced a finger down to the corner of my lips.  
  
“By her high forehead and her scarlet lip.”  
  
He used his foot to nudge mine apart.  
  
“By her fine foot.”  
  
His hand traced up the outside of my thigh.  
  
“Straight leg and quivering thigh, and the demesnes that there adjacent lie.”  
  
He hand traced ever so lightly over my crotch, then retreated.  
  
“That in thy likeness thou appear to us,” he finished.  
  
I opened my mouth to speak and found the words would not come. I cleared my throat, and had every intention of looking away from a moment to collect myself, but Mercutio gently clasped my chin and kissed me.  
  
I could taste his drunkenness. It far surpassed my own, but his grace had not vanished. It never seemed to. Every swirling massive movement that he made seemed perfectly choreographed, moving to the beat in his veins that the rest of us were deaf to. Sometimes, when I was close enough to his heart, and his voice was quiet, I thought I could hear it.  
  
“And if he hear thee,” I managed to say, remembering why we were there, “thou wilt anger him.” I hadn’t told Romeo about Mercutio and me. The fact that it wasn’t completely obvious to our oldest friend probably said something about his own current lovestruck condition.  
  
Mercutio scoffed. “This could not anger him. ‘Twould anger him to raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle of some strange nature, letting it there stand till she had laid it”—he pressed me back against the wall with a flat palm on my chest—“and conjured it down.”  
  
One of his hands grasped my hip, the other toyed around my throat. His body pressed into mine.  
  
“That were some spite,” he said, his voice barely audible. “My invocation is fair and honest, and in his mistress’ name, I conjure only but to . . . raise up him.”  
  
He grasped my crotch more firmly and grinned, wide and white in the night. You couldn’t do anything with Mercutio without him making some wordplay out of it. My exasperation these days was mostly forced.  
  
“Come,” I said, “he hath hid himself among these trees, to be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love and best befits the dark.”  
  
“If love can be blind,” said Mercutio, and I knew we were both thinking of a certain silk scarf of his, “love cannot hit the mark.”  
  
He pulled away from me, but took my hand in his. He looked up over the wall at the tops of the trees in the Capulet orchard. No visible fruit at this time of year, and the leaves were unmoving in the moonlight. If Romeo was there, or had heard us, he gave no sound.  
  
“Now will he sit under a medlar tree,” said Mercutio, “and wish his mistress were that kind of fruit as maids call medlars, when they laugh alone. Romeo, that she were, o, that she were an open etcetera, thou a poperin pear.”  
  
I frowned a little at that. Romeo, I think, wouldn’t have appreciated his Rosaline being spoken of as such, given how he’d been that morning.  
  
“Romeo, good night!” called Mercutio. “I’ll to my truckle-bed, this field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.” He tugged me gently away from the wall. “Come, shall we go?”  
  
And there was nothing I could do but nod and let myself be pulled away. As I always did and always would do. Gladly, most of the time.  
  
“Go, then,” I said, sparing a look back as we headed for Mercutio’s rooms. “For ‘tis in vain to seek him here that means not to be found.”  
  
We, at least, had found each other. Somehow, and for however long it would last.


End file.
